


Little Words

by IneffablePlan (Megafowl)



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley's Very Weird Tongue, Fluff, Humor, Idiots in Love, Kissing, M/M, One Shot Collection, Prompt Fill, Short, Temptation, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-12 00:43:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17457383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megafowl/pseuds/IneffablePlan
Summary: The shorter Good Omens prompt fills from my tumblr, cleaned up and edited.





	1. Kiss on the Inside of the Wrist

**Author's Note:**

> quoth-the-ravens asked: If you are interested, 11 for Crowley and Aziraphale would Kill me  
> 11\. A kiss on the inside of the wrist

“It’s nothing,” Aziraphale insists, his words a rush of embarrassment, tripping over themselves in the futile hope of being believed. “A frivolity, nothing to concern yourself over.”

Crowley _hadn’t_ been concerned, and was beginning to think that may have been a misjudgment on his part. He liked to keep up with Aziraphale’s interests, and the snail’s pace at which the angel gained new ones made this easy, usually. Whatever was in the small package Aziraphale was so intent on concealing wouldn’t be nearly as interesting if he hadn’t been so determined Crowley not be interested in it. So determined, he ends up misplacing his own foot, and drops the tiny thing in a little disagreement with a loose stone on the street.

Crowley quickly scoops it off the ground as Aziraphale catches his balance. It’s lighter than he expected, wrapped in paper, and for the slightest second he considers opening it to satisfy his curiosity.

It’s not worth it though. He offers it back to a disproportionately distressed Aziraphale, who takes his hand along with it, revealing a strip of skin between Crowley’s glove and sleeve. Aziraphale considers for a moment the skin exposed to the cool evening air, and draws it up to his lips.

The kiss is firm and gentle and neither long nor brief, sending sparks up Crowley’s arm that seem to catch in his core and crackle like a cheerful winter hearth. He slowly brings his arm up to his chest when Aziraphale releases it, and holds it there; fingers loosely curled and wrist pressed over his heart as if nothing could be more precious.

“Thank you my dear,” says Aziraphale, turning to take whatever trinket he’s purchased home.

Whatever the package contained, Crowley would rather have this.


	2. Kiss on the Eyelid? Kiss on the Temple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original and the follow up fic, both requested on anon. The first anon asked for a modified version of prompt #3.
> 
> 3\. “The eyelid kiss is said to produce a unique sensation of an un-wordly nature, running from the base of the spine to the knees”
> 
> 4\. A kiss on the temple

There’s a cry and some very carefully avoided swearing from over by the stove, startling Crowley from where he’d been halfway in a doze, his head cradled in the crook of his elbow, his arm resting on a clear patch of tabletop.

“Never quite got the hang of pain,” Aziraphale explains apologetically, carrying two mugs over with an awkward gait. “No matter how long I’m down here it’s always a shock.”

Crowley doesn’t comment that it’s probably the purpose of pain, to be unpleasant and warn against sustaining damage, except for sometimes those signals got crossed but that wasn’t really the point right now, but silently accepts the beverage handed to him. He takes a sip, and watches Aziraphale sit down with his own mug and touch his fingers to his shin with a disappointed curiosity.

“You know what’s more of a shock?” Crowley asks, failing to keep the smile out of his voice and off his lips.

“No, but I suppose you’re going to tell me?”

“I’ll do you one better.”

Crowley stands up, and strides deliberately around the table to position himself in front of Aziraphale. He takes Aziraphale’s jaw gently in his palms, running his thumbs in loose circles ever higher over soft cheeks, until they stop at the corners of his eyes, and with that same gentleness, leans in. Aziraphale’s eyes close at Crowley’s light breath upon them, and he stays like that, confused, but curious and trusting. Anticipating.

The demon’s tongue flicks out, licking Aziraphale’s left eyelid at no particular speed. A shudder forces its way straight down Aziraphale’s entire body, leaving him momentarily frozen.

Crowley darts back to his seat before Aziraphale’s scandalized gasp is fully formed from his throat, and tries to hide his shit-eating grin by drowning it in hot coffee.

* * *

_Just like him_ , Aziraphale grouses an hour later, squinting at his sales records and failing to copy any of them onto his old computer, _to bait me with temptation and fail to deliver._

It hadn’t been wholly unpleasant, being licked on the eye, but it had been strange and unsettling and that bit had far outweighed the thrill of coming into contact with Crowley’s tongue. Aziraphale had come into contact with Crowley’s tongue before, but the demon had been in a shape with far fewer limbs and Aziraphale had gone into the experience with far fewer expectations of it being pleasant, or even memorable at all.

Crowley had been all too gleeful after the eye-licking, and that possibly grated more on Aziraphale than the actual act had. He did not enjoy being made a fool of, as is often the case with people in general.

Drastic action was required to prevent a repeat performance, as there certainly would be one if the demon were allowed to go on believing he were, as people may or may not put it these days, ‘ _hot shit_.’

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, not entirely managing to keep the danger out of his voice, which of course the demon picks up on at once. He tries to modify his tone to a more agreeable one and only misses by about the span of an ocean, pointing to a stack of papers just out of reach. “Be a dear and fetch that for me, will you?”

Crowley scrambles to comply, the needle of his _Grouchy Bastard Irritation Level_ reading pointing just beyond _Proceed With Caution_ but not yet all the way to _Get The Fuck Out Of Dodge._

Aziraphale waits, still as only a supernatural being can be, and preemptively writes off the stack in Crowley’s hands as collateral damage.

It’s simple to reach past the papers to the wrist of the demon holding them, and Aziraphale does so while fluidly getting to his feet. The papers, useful records but not vital ones, slip from Crowley’s hands and flutter to the worn carpet as Aziraphale moves forward and shuffles Crowley back.

“Um, Angel?” Crowley questions when his back hits a bookshelf and Aziraphale has his arm pinned to his chest and the world doesn’t make as much sense as it seemed to a few seconds ago.

“Yes.” Aziraphale uses his free hand to remove Crowley’s sunglasses. He is, in fact, an angel, although he doesn’t feel the reminder is particularly relevant at this point in time.

He hooks the arm of the sunglasses into his collar, keeping his gaze on the wide, bewildered serpent’s eyes as he moves even closer, losing all pretense of personal space. Neither of them are breathing at this point. Crowley is effectively stuck, pressed between Aziraphale and a very solid bookshelf, and Aziraphale isn’t sure if the tongue responsible for the earlier mess had just flickered across Crowley’s lips in nervousness or desire.

All the same really.

Aziraphale uses his free hand to lightly turn Crowley’s face away by the chin, and leaves a sweet, lingering kiss on his temple. He steps away slower than necessary, not missing how Crowley moves unthinkingly, instinctively, after him. Desire then, he can live with that.

“Thank you for the glasses, dear boy,” he says, and turns sharply on his heel, returning to his accounts. He spends the next half hour fending off retrieving fingers and cheerfully ignoring the sputtering and desperately emphatic protests more than accomplishing any actual work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	3. Kiss on the Back of the Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mirawonderfulstar asked: How about 6?
> 
> 6\. Randomly while holding hands bringing joined hands together to kiss the back of the hand
> 
> Not quite the prompt, but close enough.

It’s a cool evening, an almost pleasant chill settling into the air as the sun sinks to the horizon. Aziraphale is lost in his recollections of the day, privately grateful Crowley had insisted he leave the bookshop and join him in going to a concert.

He _had_ been spending a lot of time inside, but it was cozy, controlled, familiar. His comfort zone consisted of bookshelves and trinkets and things that were beginning to show their age more than he would have liked, contained in the little haven he’d set up for himself. He’d be lying though, if only by omission, if he didn’t include Crowley in the list of the safe and familiar.

He could get by without him, sure, but it was always better to have a friendly face by one’s side when venturing into the world that feels damned and determined to leave you behind, these days.

Crowley knows this, but the angel still takes the time to catch Crowley’s fingers in his own, and when the demon graciously opens the passenger door to help him inside the Bentley, Aziraphale doesn’t let go without leaving the lightest feather of a kiss on the back of his hand.

 


	4. Cuddles at 4am

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> regencysnuffboxes asked for prompt#34
> 
> “You come to my room and wake me up at 4am, to cuddle?”

Something cold hits Crowley’s calf muscle, crashing him out of his dreams like an iceberg launched at the Titanic at mach-fucking-bullshit.

He had been warm, he had been comfortable, he had been a dead unconscious microwaved burrito pillowed on a cloud of the world’s softest candy floss. And now there was something very frozen and very insistent digging its way into his toasty cocoon and he was about as far from appreciative of it as he could get.

He knows it’s Aziraphale without opening his eyes. Anyone else would have sprung his mental tripwires and woken him up long before getting anywhere near his luxurious and honestly-probably-excessive silk-encased duvet.

Crowley tries to shuffle away, back into the warmth, but Aziraphale has found his way into the maze of blankets wrapped around Crowley, and wraps himself around him too.

Crowley yelps, gives a few decent squirms, and then accepts his chilly fate. "So, exactly which ice box did you just crawl out of?” he drawls.

“Oh, hush,” Aziraphale says to the space between his shoulder blades. “I was only outside.”

“Mmph.”

Crowley cracks one eye open and peers at the digital alarm clock glowing an infernal 4:08 in the imprecise direction of the bed.

“S'late,” he says.

“Early,” Aziraphale corrects, and sighs into Crowley’s spine.

Crowley continues staring into the electronic glow. Silent, listening, and stiff as an ice sculpture.

“Don’t you have something to do?” he asks finally.

“I would simply like to hold you, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh.”

More relative silence.

“Yeah, go right ahead.”

Aziraphale smiles behind him and tightens his grip, and soon Crowley finds himself drifting back off to the faint hum of the distant unplugged refrigerator, secure in the now-warm angel’s soft arms.


	5. Choose Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked for prompt #22 "Choose me."

“This is a contest then?” Aziraphale asks, puzzling over Crowley's iPad. The screen was entirely too busy looking, all these bright colours and ostentatious movements. He does his best to pick out the important, relevant parts, but the adverts are distracting and he hasn’t figured out how to consistently identify them yet. Computers were all well and good, but Aziraphale hasn’t yet made up his mind about this internet business, or this touch-screen business—or even the Apple business—but he did like a few of the puzzle game apps.

“Mm-hmm,” says Crowley, using his index finger to scroll through the website’s image gallery. “It’s a _calendar_ contest. You vote on the picture you most want to see included. It’s all submission based.”

“Sounds simple enough,” says Aziraphale, in the way people do when they don’t want to admit they’re not sure they grasp the concept entirely. He understood voting in contests fine, but wasn’t sure how it worked on this little... device.

“It is,” encourages Crowley, passing Aziraphale the tablet.

Aziraphale holds the thing doubtfully, distrustfully, and copies the way he’d seen Crowley manipulate the screen before. “There’s quite a few...” He trails off and narrows his eyes. “Crowley, this one is you.”

“Could be,” Crowley says passively, looking extremely interested in a knick-knack cluster he knows hasn’t changed, more-or-less, for three decades.

“Hmm, well, I must say there is such a large selection of...” Aziraphale flounders for the proper term. “Amphibians—”

“—Reptiles.”

“—And I couldn’t possibly choose just one to vote for.” Aziraphale punctuates his sentence by holding the iPad back towards Crowley.

“Choose me,” Crowley snaps, shoving the iPad back.

“Oh?” For having had a few millennia to practice, Aziraphale’s innocent expressions were in need of improvement. “I’m sorry, I thought that one _wasn’t_ you.”

“Angel,” Crowley says, tone as fond as it was exasperated. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a bit of a bastard?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I could turn into a snake I'd enter myself in photo competitions too.


End file.
